Solutions and Deductions
by InterruptingDinosaur
Summary: No situation is ever what it seems, so why not apply that same logic to people? They are, after all, only human, and therefore, flawed. A series of snapshots into the personal lives of various characters.  A collection of short drabbles.
1. Umbrella

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

**Prompt: Sherlock's thoughts on Mycroft leaving him and starting school.**

Mycroft never knew that the starting of his tenth year in school would upset his little brother so much. It started out small at first; Sherlock would throw his usual fits, which all ended in sulking in a locked room, but the problem grew worse when Sherlock started tampering with Mycroft's belongings. School books were vandalized in artful ways, sweaters were mysteriously torn in the laundry, and even his umbrella was found with several gaping holes cut in it.

It wasn't until Sherlock was confronted that it dawned on Mycroft that his little brother might have missed him.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. I don't miss you. I'm merely suggesting that I should be the one progressing into a higher education than being stuck among the cretinous creatures in my primary school."

But Mycroft could see through Sherlock's lies. In the end, Mycroft forced his little brother into an awkward and unwilling hug that Sherlock soon ended by pushing his brother away in disgust.

The next morning, a new umbrella was found waiting for Mycroft, leaning against his bedroom door with his school things.


	2. Enormousness

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Sherlock's thoughts on Mycroft leaving him and starting school.<strong>

Sherlock pouted; it was a well-known fact in the Holmes' household that when things did not go Sherlock's way, he would pout rather than scream and throw a tantrum like many boys his age. However, as Mycroft noted, lately, Sherlock's attitude had been fouler than usual, bitterly insulting Mycroft's weight at every given opportunity; it took several days for Mycroft to finally figure out what it was that was bothering his brother.

"Are you sure you're going to fit through the doors of your new school? Your enormity may cause problems to the traffic of the corridors if you're blocking the exits," Sherlock said one day, sitting on Mycroft's bed and watching as Mycroft packed his trunks.

"Enormousness," corrected Mycroft with an amused smile. "Enormity refers to something atrocious or morally wrong rather than physical size. And I will miss you too, dear brother, but if you're going to insult me, at least use the right word."

"Who said anything about missing you?" scowled Sherlock as he climbed off the bed and dashed out into the hall.

Two days after Mycroft had left for school, a package had arrived in the post for Sherlock. Wrapped in brown paper was a brand new dictionary with gold lettering on the front, and bookmarked in the "E" section was a simple piece of card stock with Myroft's looping handwriting: _So you can come up with new and better insults when I get back._


	3. Jam

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Sherlock buys milk. John's reaction<strong>

"Sherlock, I'm going out to pick up some milk. D'you need anything?" John called from the bottom of the stairwell by the front door.

"It's alright, John, I bought the milk already." Sherlock called from upstairs.

John couldn't believe his ears, he excitedly rushed to Sherlock to confirm the facts.

"But I used it all on an experiment to see the effects of lactose on a decomposing corpse."

"So, you mean-" John stopped mid-sentence, "Why did you tell me? I still need to pick up the milk."

Sherlock didn't bother to look up from the sofa he was reclining on, "Could you pick me up some more nicotine patches while you're there? Thanks."

"Wouldn't it be fair if you did your share of the grocery shopping once in a while?"

Sherlock remained motionless.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened one eye to peer up at John, "Oh, you're still here? Do you need to use my card again? It's in the kitchen."

"Sherlock," John shouted, "this still doesn't answer my question!"

But his flatmate had closed his eyes again, "Pick yourself up something nice if you want."

John had no idea when he became a housewife, but it was apparent that Sherlock wasn't going to step up for the role of devoted husband.

After an hour had passed, John returned with his grocery bags. Sherlock was waiting in the kitchen.

"Oh, good, you've returned. I'm starving and Mrs. Hudson wasn't here." Sherlock said, uncrossing his legs and jumping up to rummage through the food.

John set the bags down on the counter, and started to put the foods away.

"Hang on, what's this?" Sherlock plucked a jar from a bulging bag, "Strawberry jam? I didn't ask for this."

Sherlock set the strawberry jam down, and inspected the rest of the bag's contents.

"Blackberry jam, blueberry jam, raspberry-" Sherlock pulled jar after jar of jam from the bag, "John, why did you buy all this jam?"

John smiled, "You told me to pick myself up something nice," He opened a jar of jam, dipped his finger in, and licked it, "and I like my jam."


	4. Dry Cleaning

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Sherlock buys milk. John's reaction<strong>

Wednesday started awfully with John spending twenty minutes looking for his left shoe (stolen by Sherlock in the middle of the night for one of his experiments), and then got worse when he'd run out of milk and he had to eat his cereal dry. "We need some more milk, Sherlock," John said offhandedly as he was preparing to leave. Of course, John didn't actually expect Sherlock to do the shopping, but when John got home from work, much to his surprise, there was a jug of milk sitting the fridge.

"You actually got the milk? But you've never picked up the milk before."

"I've never required it. I'm lactose intolerant, therefore unable to process dairy products."

"So you… bought the milk for me?"

Sherlock fixed John with an intense stare. "Yes, John, I did it for you. Is that so surprising? Aren't flat mates supposed to help each other?"

"Yes_, supposed_ to." Awkwardly rubbing the back of his tired neck, John turned to go upstairs to his bedroom.

"Oh, and one more thing, John; you will need to pickup my dry cleaning on the way home tomorrow."

John turned around to give Sherlock an exasperated look. "What? I'm not picking up your bloody dry cleaning!"

"But, John," Sherlock said with an air of innocence, "_I_ picked up the milk."


	5. Opera

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Anthea meets Irene Adler<strong>

Every Thursday of the month was circled with a red pen, marked down as the days Mycroft went to the opera. The nights would be spent in laughter, champagne, and music… for Mycroft. For the rest of his staff it meant having to wait outside, in a stuffy lobby, for the whole night.

Interns were new to the ritual. They thought it was exciting to have a reason to dress up in formal wear. Interns like, Mycroft's newest addition to the team, Annie.

It wasn't like anyone hadn't warned her. They told her to put on a comfortable pair of shoes because the chances were that she'd be standing around all night. But she didn't listen; Annie was one of those stubborn ones. She dressed up in a bold pink dress suit and the best heels she owned.

It wasn't until intermission that Annie admitted to defeat and slunk into a dark corner of the well-lit lobby. Her toes ached from being squished together all night, and her pride hurt from the "I told you so" looks the fellow staff members gave. She was so busy rubbing her sore feet that she hardly noticed when someone took a seat on the bench next to her.

"Tough night?" The woman asked. Her accent was foreign. American, Annie thought.

"You could say that again." Annie answered. Her pager buzzed in one of the spacious pink pockets. Mycroft wanted chocolate, again.

The woman peered at her curiously, "What's your name?"

"Annie,"

"That's not a very good name."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't look plain enough to have a name like Annie."

Annie snorted, "I'm waiting outside a quality opera, rubbing my feet. An interesting person would be inside enjoying herself. A plain person like me can only dream of being that interesting person."

"I'm thinking you look more like an… Anthea." The woman observed Annie closely.

"Anthea," Annie rolled the name around on her tongue, "Now an Anthea would definitely be inside watching the opera." Annie's pager vibrated again. Mycroft was getting impatient.

"Why aren't you inside?" The woman inquired curiously.

"Um, my boss, he's the one inside."

"It doesn't mean that you can't be in there with him."

"I didn't buy a ticket."

The woman smiled, "Just call me your fairy godmother. I work for the show and I get special deals. I'll let you sit anywhere you want tonight."

"I don't think that would be… my boss wouldn't like that very much."

"Of course there are conditions to my favour. I want you to go by Anthea from now on-" Annie's pager vibrated again. Mycroft wanted cheese this time. "And trade in your pager for a Blackberry. They're much more efficient."

Intermission was over, and the woman stood up to leave.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get a name." Annie called.

"Just call me Adler." She smiled and sashayed away.

—

"Ah, Annie," Mycroft whispered from his balcony seat, "What took you so long?" His greedy fingers reached out for the tray of cheese and chocolates.

"I had to ask around for your particular brands of chocolates, sir." She paused and added, "and please, call me Anthea from now on."

Mycroft peeled his eyes from the opera to look at his intern, "I'm sorry?"

"I said, call me Anthea." She took a seat beside him.

"Shouldn't you be getting back to the lobby?" He said this as he fit a piece of chocolate in his mouth.

"A friend bought me a ticket." She hardly batted an eyelash.

"Yes, but-"

"Didn't your trainer say that you should be watching your sweets?"

Mycroft was taken aback. It had been a while since someone dared speak to him that way. He didn't know if he should fire her for her insolence, or marry her because she reminded him of his mother.

He made a mental reminder to promote her in the morning.


	6. Fort Knox

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Sherlock is surprised by John's password to his laptop<strong>

To date, John has changed his password a total of three times, and each time, Sherlock has managed to crack every one of them. The first was John's middle name, Hamish; that was easy enough to figure out after he'd tried Hugh, Henry, Horace, and Harold. The second password was _bakerstreet_. Unoriginal. The third was hardly subtle: _stophackingmycomputer_.

Now, Sherlock was poised in front of John's computer, attempting to once more crack the code, but unlike three times, Sherlock was finding difficulty in solving this one. He checked his wristwatch; he'd spent almost ten minutes on it now.

_myflatmateisannoying_? Nope.

_sarah_? Password incorrect.

_ilovejumpers_? Access denied.

Infuriated, Sherlock finally pounded _igiveup _and stood up to retrieve his own laptop from the bedroom when, much to his surprise, the screen on the computer flashed and granted him access into John's computer. Sherlock smirked; not exactly For Knox.


	7. Passwords

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Sherlock is surprised by John's password to his laptop<strong>

Everyone had a password protected computer since they learned that Sherlock liked to _borrow_.

Mycroft's password was _2253,_ spelling 'cake' on any keypad.

Lestrade's password bragged about his job- _scotlandyard1_.

Anderson's password was oddly relevant to his off-job passion- _dinosaursrule23_.

Even Mrs. Hudson had her ancient computer protected with _2003-_- the year her first grandchild was born.

Sherlock had cracked all of these barriers without so much as a sweat. He thought it would be the same when it came time to use John's laptop. A thought that he would later regret when it actually came time.

The first try came in the form the form of _1971-_ John's birth year.

_ACCESS DENIED_

Sherlock was slightly surprised, but unperturbed, he tried again.

_jwatson_

_ACCESS DENIED_

After several more denials, Sherlock had gone into a state of mixed shock and admiration for John's surprisingly good security. However, he refused to admit defeat. He racked his mind, trying to remember what captured John's interest.

Was it kittens? No, Sherlock had tried that already- along with jam, jumpers, and hedgehogs.

A thought had occurred to Sherlock that the password could have been about him. He was flattered by this thought, though he refused to blush, but he couldn't figure out what thoughts could have occurred to John that were about Sherlock.

He finally surrendered John's computer to lie on the couch with two nicotine patches.

When John returned, Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot on the couch.

"Sherlock," John said when he noticed that his laptop had been moved from the kitchen to the living room, "were you using my computer?"

"Hm?" Sherlock cracked an eye open, "Oh... no."

"Then why is it in here? I didn't leave it here." Sherlock didn't answer. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock groaned, "your password was denied," which was his way of admitting to John that he had been unable to gain access.

John nodded. He sat down at the kitchen island and started his laptop to life, unaware that Sherlock had risen from the sofa and was now looking over John's shoulder.

_sherlocklovesjohn_

The screen turned blue and chimed.

_WELCOME JOHN WATSON_

Sherlock smiled.


	8. Revenge

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Mycroft pisses off Sherlock; John gets revenge.<strong>

"I'd like you take on a case for me, Sherlock," Mycroft announced one Monday morning. He had burst in through the front door unexpectedly, umbrella in hand, demanding to see Sherlock.

"My schedule's packed," Sherlock answered, hardly looking up from his phone.

Mycroft looked taken aback, never before had his brother turned down a case. John entered the room just then, stretching his neck in his fluffy bathrobe.

"Perhaps you can clear some time-"

"Nope," Sherlock interrupted. "Packed."

That annoyed Mycroft. "Your schedule may be cleared up if you didn't spend so much time having," he paused, "_relations _with your pathetic excuse of a flatmate."

John was in the midst of spreading jam on his toast when he heard this. He turned the exact colour of the strawberry jam he was using, but continued about his business, pretending that he couldn't hear the conversation being held in the living room.

Sherlock didn't react, "say what you must, Mycroft, but I'm still not taking your case."

Mycroft grinded his teeth and left the flat in a royal huff. It wasn't until after he left that John realized how angry Sherlock was. John himself wasn't completely appalled by Mycroft's comments because he knew that Mycroft was just finding low excuses to insult Sherlock. Sherlock trudged into his room, and didn't make an appearance until dinner. John noticed that he had even been as emotionally affected that he changed back into a dressing robe.

Something had to be done.

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><p>"Sir, a Dr. John Watson is here to see you," Mycroft's secretary called. Mycroft was in the middle of eating his breakfast when his visitor arrived.<p>

"Send him in," Mycroft replied, buttering his toast with the low fat version of _I Can't Believe it's Not Butter_. He looked at the label and snickered; he couldn't believe it wasn't butter either. Losing five pounds could never be easier.

"Mycroft?" John's head poked in through the door.

"Come in, John." Mycroft beckoned, munching on his toast.

John entered holding a basket. It was covered with a quaint gingham cloth, and a lovely touch was added by a bow that sat atop the basket.

"I just came to apologize for Sherlock's behaviour yesterday. I understand that he can be a handful, so I brought a sort of apology present." He held up the basket.

Mycroft clapped, "Good, I _love _presents." John set the basket down. "What exactly is it?"

John was just about to leave the room, "Oh, just chocolates, and jam."

Mycroft gulped. "Chocolates?"

He lifted up the cloth covering the basket and saw that, indeed, it was filled with boxes of chocolates, and little jars of jam.

"But, I'm on a diet. I couldn't…" Mycroft trailed off.

John nodded, "Of course, I understand. I'm sorry, I forgot about your diet." He was about to retrieve the basket when he added, "but didn't Sherlock say that Belgian chocolates were your favourite?"

"Well, if they're Belgian…" Mycroft motioned for John to leave the basket.

"The jam is apricots and peaches."

"Apricot and peach jam is my favourite."

John smiled, "I'll just leave you to it then."

"But… everything is low in fat, isn't it?"

John paused, "Of course." He smiled one last reassuring time and left the room.

The chocolates had disappeared by the end of the day. And by the end of the week, the jam had been eaten, and their jars were licked clean.

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><p>"Good morning, Judy." Mycroft greeted a maid passing him in the hallways.<p>

It was Monday morning— time to hit the scale. He had a confident feeling that he had achieved his goal and had shed more than enough weight for a little frozen treat at dinner.

However, when he stepped on the scale it sailed past his previous weight. His head went dizzy as the numbers kept rising. By the time the scale had settled, Mycroft was holding into the sink to keep steady. Not only had he failed losing any weight at all, but he had succeeded in gaining twelve pounds.

Mycroft finally noticed the effects of the fattening chocolates kicking in when he could barely button up his pants.

"John," he growled under his breath.


	9. Coat

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Sherlock gives John his coat because he is cold.<strong>

"Sherlock, I'm going out," John announced one Saturday evening.

Unlike his usual slow and uncaring self, Sherlock immediately rushed into the room. "What for?"

"I'm going shopping," John stated as if it was an obvious fact.

"You've already bought the milk. There are even beans in the cupboard."

"I'm shopping for myself, Sherlock." John tried to make his way to the front door, but Sherlock blocked his path.

"That's nonsense. What could you possibly need?" Sherlock demanded.

"A new coat. Since our last little escapade through London, I've torn a hole in the sleeve of my old one."

"You can go buy another one tomorrow. I need you to come with me tonight."

"For what?"

Sherlock had barely given John time to stop and catch his breath since they first became flatmates. John was never bored, and always very amused, but even an ex-soldier needed rest.

"I'm keeping an eye out for a murder suspect at Angelo's."

"But, Sherlock," John lifted his right arm to show Sherlock the damage of his sleeve.

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal, "Minor. You can borrow mine for the time being."

There was no arguing with Sherlock when he had his mind set on something. John learned this while buttoning up his coat— _Sherlock's_ coat— which was too long for his stocky build. The sleeves stretched beyond his fingertips, giving him the impression of a four year old playing dress-up. But that was not the problem; it was the attention they were given that was the problem.

Mrs. Hudson was the first to notice. "Hello, boys," she greeted them on their way out. "Big night on the town?"

"I-er—" John stuttered, but Mrs. Hudson just winked at him and carried on.

"Sharing clothes now?" she squealed. "Ooh, perhaps tonight will be the big night."

"I'm sorry?" John was genuinely confused. "What big night?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Oh, don't worry, dear, I won't tell. Just promise me that you'll let me help plan your wedding."

John was both too shocked and confused to answer.

"JOHN!" Sherlock called from the front door. "Let's go!"

John hurried out to meet Sherlock.

"Good luck!" Mrs. Hudson called from behind.

—

Things weren't much better at Angelo's.

"Sherlock!" Angelo greeted both men with crushing hugs and handshakes. He led them to a table and set out their menus before he noticed that John was wearing Sherlock's coat.

"I hear couples like matching these days," he suggested helpfully to a madly blushing John.

"We're not a couple," John stated flatly.

Angelo had the same smile that Mrs. Hudson smiled, "oh, perhaps something more then?"

John looked down, refusing to answer.

"So, er, you were looking for a suspect?" John asked Sherlock.

"He hasn't arrived yet." Sherlock then turned to Angelo. "Bring me two glasses of port."

"Of course, anything for you, Sherlock." Angelo turned to the direction of a nearby waiter, "Arthur, get Mr. Holmes, and his date, two glasses of our best port. Now!"

The waiter scurried off to meet his boss's demands.

"And get a candle while you're at it, it's more romantic!" Angelo called.

"Why are we having wine?" John asked.

"Our suspect doesn't look like he'll show up any time soon. We might as well enjoy ourselves."

John looked down at his menu before it suddenly dawned on him.

Could it be that he had just been tricked to go on a date with Sherlock Holmes?


	10. Gifts

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompts: Christmas time for Sherlock.<strong>

The sidewalks glittered with freshly fallen snow, the roads with remnants of brown slush; the street lamps were adorned with fake holly and flashing lights. The presence of these could only mean one thing: it was Christmas at Baker Street.

To be more exact, the story takes place in 221B Baker Street. And although it was the Yuletide season everywhere else, it was undecorated and lacking in festivity inside 221B.

Sherlock Holmes was moping on the sofa, dressed up in one of his grand silk robes, when John Watson entered the room.

"I'm going Christmas shopping today." He announced cheerfully, pulling on his coat.

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't talk much these days. Since the holiday season rolled around, crime rates had been lower than ever. A surprising fact, as most suicides and murders happened from loneliness and rage at the reminder of love and family.

But John persisted, "Sherlock?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock groaned from below.

"I'm going Christmas shopping today." John repeated, as if he were patiently talking to a toddler.

"I heard you the first time, John."

"This is your chance to do some shopping of your own. I'm sure Mycroft will be expecting something." John looped a scarf around his neck.

"Mycroft expects me to go home and have Christmas dinner with him. Do you expect me to appease him that way as well?"

John pursed his lips, "I'm just saying that it would be a nice gesture seeing as how you've turned down every case he's presented you with this year."

Sherlock waved his hand in the air in dismissal, "I've got it under control."

"So you've bought your brother's present already?"

"Yes,"

John shook his head, he still didn't believe Sherlock, but he was running short on time. He left Sherlock in his miserable state on the sofa, and went out into the cold. As annoyed as he was with his flatmate's ignorance, John still bought Sherlock a present. Things were going well until the sight of mistletoe mixed with the thought of Sherlock made John blush madly and knock over a display of stuffed animals.

The thought remained in his mind until Christmas day.

—

Christmas was a fine day of hearty dinners, cozy fires, and beautifully wrapped gifts.

Through frosted windows, Lestrade received hugs from his daughter for giving her the doll house of her dreams as a guilty present for missing so many other days of the year for work. A knock on his door led to the delivery of a box that held a book, _Forensics For Dummies_, from none other than Sherlock.

The ding of a microwave indicated that a bachelor's meal was ready for an awaiting Anderson whose wife had left for a business trip, for the fourth time that month. A chiming melody emitted from his doorbell was caused by a cold deliveryman with a package containing unisex deodorant, delivered from Sherlock Holmes.

Sally Donovan, who was curled up with her cat in front of a flickering telly, was enjoying a nice hot cup of cocoa when she discovered a package hastily shoved through her mail slot. Upon unwrapping the paper, she became the owner of a romance novel, _Master of Desire_, in which the cover involved a shirtless man, and a barely clothed woman passionately embracing.

Molly was dressing up her cat, Toby, in a hand-knitted Christmas jumper when she heard the brakes of a delivery van. Even she was on Sherlock's gift list— a make-up kit for children ages four and up.

The kitchen smelled of sweet spices, earthy herbs, and mouth watering desserts when Mycroft walked passed it in the hallway. He was on his way to change out of his pajamas for breakfast when his secretary stopped him dead in his tracks. A package had come for him earlier that morning from his little brother. A newly tailored suit sat waiting for him, neatly folded in the package. Mycroft was about to compliment Sherlock's good taste- the suit was Hugo Boss- when he discovered that the pants were too small- three sizes too small.

A shivering delivery man even found his way onto Mrs. Hudson's doorstep that day. A package that rang the most sincere from all the gifts given that day. The gift of yarn. But Mrs. Hudson knew that it just wasn't any yarn. The yarn balls were immaculately rolled into tight balls; ranging from every shade of purple you could imagine.

And with the last present having been delivered, the story now goes back to 221B Baker Street, where John had just then woken up and was fixing himself a cup of tea. He was sighing at the effects of the steaming mug on his just-out-of-bed state when he noticed his flat. Banished was the mundane gloominess from the lack of holiday cheer. A roaring fire was built in the fireplace, a small Christmas tree was placed in the corner of the room where underneath the pine needles was a stack of presents.

"You didn't think that I had forgotten about today, did you?" Sherlock asked from the arm chair.

John was staring at the room with gaping eyes, "How did you do all of this?"

Sherlock shrugged, "It wasn't hard to get everything while you were sleeping."

"This is fantastic!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock only smiled, but John could tell that he was pleased with his work.

John was quickly herded into the corner of the room to open his presents by an eagerly waiting Sherlock. Soon, that corner was littered with wrapping paper and bows. Jumpers, jam, and even a new phone were presented to John, who thanked Sherlock profusely. When all the excitement over presents was over, both flatmates headed to the kitchen for some breakfast.

"Of course," John said, "you'll be wanting your present now."

Sherlock was a bit confused at this statement. He had used his skills of deduction to search every nook and cranny of he flat before finally gave up and decided that John must have had his present delivered.

"You probably didn't find it," John continued, "because I know you were looking for it."

Sherlock didn't deny it.

"Well, here it is."

Nothing happened. Sherlock was unimpressed, and John could see the disappointment in his eyes.

John motioned up to the ceiling where a piece of mistletoe hung ever so innocently over their heads. He leaned in and kissed a surprised Sherlock.

It was the best Christmas present Sherlock had ever received, and John had ever given.


	11. Coffee

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Molly meets Sherlock for the first time.<strong>

The moment Molly set eyes on him, she was smitten.

Her job was simple: go in and explain the state of the cadaver to Lestrade. She had done it dozens of times before, never failing to let anything get in the way.

Molly had heard that there was someone else working on the case with Lestrade that day. The grape vine had led Molly to knowing that the man's name was Sherlock Holmes— a consultant who swooped in to help Lestrade in this particularly tricky homicide. No word yet on what this Holmes character looked like, but Molly had imagined a rat-faced man with a bulging belly. She had managed to spill coffee on herself when she giggled at her mental image.

Stepping into the lab, her mind was effectively turned to a useless pile of mush.

"Ah, our pathologist has arrived," Lestrade announced when Molly stepped into the room.

A man was stooped over a lab table. Even from behind Molly knew that her mental image had been greatly distorted. She was sure that Sherlock's waist was even smaller than hers. When he turned around, the buttons of his burgundy shirt strained against his chest— threatening to pop at any moment. His grey eyes peered at her curiously.

"Aren't you going to show me the body?" he asked.

Molly was too busy staring at his dark tousled hair to articulate a fathomable answer. "Uh, I— er, of course… sorry."

She quickly shuffled to fetch them the corpse, but as she moved, she realized that every movement she made was being observed by Sherlock. The coffee stain on her lab coat suddenly made her feel extremely self conscious.

"Are you sure she's qualified?"

Molly heard Sherlock ask this to Lestrade. She immediately blushed and bumped into a table.

She would show Sherlock. It's not like Molly had always been small and timid. She went to protests when she was at college. This was Molly Angela Hooper, not Little Molly. She would think of a biting remark that would put Sherlock in his place. She would—

"Would you like to have some coffee?" she heard herself asking.


End file.
